“He’s an imbecile! He took you to his home because he forgot his cigarettes,” she explains seething.
“Let’s go see your child now,” Natasha suggests.
A deep breath later we walk to the front door loaded down with gifts. We stand in the foyer inside the front door, waiting for someone to welcome us. I look left to see the child house manager smiling warmly at us. Motioning us into her office, she hugs all of us, offering congratulations.
Immediately, we present champagne, cake and gifts for the staff. As she looks down at her desk, the warm smile fades. Then, she carefully re-packs all items in the original traveling box, placing it under her desk.
That’s unusual. Maybe, she thinks it’s too disruptive to give those gifts now. Or did we trip over some invisible line of propriety?
As if on cue, after the manager hides the gifts, our son appears wearing a red holiday suit. Smiles brighten every face as the caregiver places him in my arms. Ardently, I cover Zack’s head and hands with countless kisses while he rests comfortably and contentedly in my arms. My heart flutters as we share a warm embrace.
What a magnificent blessing to live in this moment! After all of this struggle, finally, he’s here with us forever.
Euphoria saturates every cell in my body. I feel a need to check my sense of reality. I shake my head and blink intermittently as if to meld my mind and body together once again. Liquid jubilation sprinkles my baby’s head and hands, removing all doubt. The manager says something to Viktoria.
“She said that they dressed him in red so that you can tell the difference between him and the other children. They call him American boy now,” Viktoria says with a smile.
American boy. Suddenly, worry steals my cheer.
I bite my lower lip and gaze through the window at the winter storm that awaits us.
I hope we make it home alive.
Our bad judgment may make you Russian boy again.
24. BIRTHDAY PARTY
“Why don’t we go upstairs?” suggests the manager. A nurse reaches for Zack before we begin our upward climb. The surroundings exceed my expectations. The yellow daisy speckled walls gaze at us, and the spotless floors mock my questioning eyes. In the center of a large square room, twelve happy children waddle and play within the confines of a large square play pen. Cribs placed end-to-end against the wall form the inner perimeter of the room. Some interesting toys stare longingly at the children from the display case near the entrance. I immediately observe an inactive baby lying on its back in a crib separated from the others.
“Why isn’t this child with the others in the play pen?” I ask Viktoria.
“She is sick and must be isolated from the group,” Viktoria answers.
A nurse plucks her from the crib, allowing me to hold her. She’s stunningly beautiful, dark ringlets and Caribbean blue eyes contrast with her alabaster skin. I hug her gently.
I’d love to be your mother—to create a forever loving home for you. You’re the only girl here I’m told. I know your forever family will find you, honey.
“The manager tells me that Russians keep their girls and will give up their boys first if necessary,” Viktoria comments, her voice thick with remorse.
Viktoria looks very sad. None of these babies should be here. They all deserve loving families.
Noticing my obvious affection for this infant, the nurse pulls her from me while my husband nudges me toward the playpen to give gifts.
As each child smiles and squeals with happiness at his new prize, I feel deep gratification once again. One boy waddles immediately to Ethan as we lean over the playpen wall. He’s completely adorable with his friendly, extroverted demeanor, big smile, dark hair and exuberant, joyful eyes. Excitedly, he unsteadily moves toward us with his arms outstretched to receive a hug and a one-way ticket out. I glance at Ethan in a curious way—the child “sees” only him and makes his way into his arms. With a funereal frown and watery eyes, Ethan grabs the little boy—hugging him longingly for several minutes. After lovingly placing him in the playpen, he pretends to turn away to locate another toy from our treasury. He wipes his eyes several times.
He’s fighting back tears still. This baby boy is …
I put my arm around his waist to comfort him knowing what he would say before he said it.
“He recognized me. He’s the other boy we wanted to adopt. He’s the one we couldn’t get.” He tells me in a tortured voice, looking down at the floor. Wiping his eyes again, he sniffles.
Why didn’t they just let us adopt both boys? They could be brothers. My eyes burn with tears.
Of course, we asked and asked again to adopt both boys after Ethan met them in July, months earlier.
Oh, yea, Natasha said that officials denied our request because it would create a big uproar within the city and within the child house. They said many local people who worked inside the child house and inside the country wanted these babies. And since we mysteriously received top priority on the waiting list, we didn’t want to push the issue and possibly jeopardize our future with Zack. Oh, yea, that was when Natasha called us greedy, arrogant Americans for asking and asking.
From the corner of my eye, I see the child house manager approach us with Viktoria.
“He’ll be leaving with an American couple in two weeks,” she explains to Viktoria refusing to meet our eyes, eyes filled with love, sincerity and compassion.
We smile and sigh like two tired hikers at the end of a stony slope.
I hope and pray that she’s being truthful. In this situation, we question a lot. We’ll never ever forget this baby boy. Zack will know him too, when he gets older and watches his baby videos.
The clamor of kids jostling for toys quickly changes the subject. Blonde haired blue-eyed twin boys gape at our toy treasury and us.
“A child house worker has adopted these boys,” Viktoria communicates. Each boy receives an identical toy as we push forward to meet and greet each child.
In the scrambling throng of squealing kids, a blonde haired blue-eyed baby conspicuously doesn’t rush forward, he lies on his belly next to the railing on the side farthest from the only door to the room. He screams loudly and kicks valiantly in his anchored-to-the-floor position. Although he’s old enough to waddle, he doesn’t. I study his eyes, squinting eyes that focus on the other kids.
“Why doesn’t that baby join the group?”
“Down’s syndrome,” Viktoria says, her voice trailing off as she averts her eyes.
Oh, no! His future ….will be painful and sad in Russia. Like the American culture, Russians exalt physical and mental perfection—the weight, the teeth, the youth, the athleticism, the money and the success.
Instantly, I shudder at the thought.
Of course, most Americans want healthy, “normal” babies and the Russian citizenry aren’t interested; so, at a certain age, he’ll be transferred to a state-run mental hospital instead of the school for orphans, the separate school that insures the safety of the orphans by separating them from the “normal” kids in the general population.
As he screams and kicks wildly, I put a toy within his reach which he grabs; however, he continues to flail and scream. To comfort him, I lean over and place my hand on his back to stroke him. As I caress him and talk to him soothingly, his legs became still and the screaming stops. I continue to stroke his precious, little hands, and gently scratch his back. Now, this baby lies totally quiet and still.
How amazing is that! Touch and voice have such a big impact on him. This baby just wants to be acknowledged, talked to and adored. He wants to be … loved.
My eyes fill with tears as I continue to talk to him while I touch his head and back.
A life-changing moment, a lesson taught by a toddler teacher about the transcendent power of touch.
I owe you, sweetheart. You just made me a better mother and a better human being.
As I leave his side, I notice the screaming and flailing begin again as if we never met.
<
br /> “And here he is…” announces the translator as the nurse brings our one-year old baby boy into the room and places him in the play pen. Hurriedly, I rush to his side. With a big hug and a couple of kisses, I present him with a toy, which he carefully inspects.
Another little boy approaches us with a new toy in hand. Turning slightly away from Zack, I shower this little toddler with affection. Zack positions himself closer to me and shoves the little boy, seizing his toy.
Why in the world would he do that? Was it jealousy or the toy or both?
With toy tightly clutched in his hand like a trophy, he has my undivided attention and everyone else’s, giggles waft our way as our playpen dictator parades his win.
As quickly and abruptly as the party begins, it ends—the manager motioning us toward the door. The baby with Down’s continues to cry with the same unrelenting intensity as he did when I left his side—he never pauses, but coughs when he gasps for breath. A quick hand-off to Ethan and I move toward him to say “Good-bye.
“Nyet!” The manager says as she grabs my forearm.
Wrenching it away, I look her squarely in the eyes.
“Da! Today, the answer is yes—for him and for me. Tell her Viktoria. Please tell her.”
Without hesitating, I walk over to him, lean over and tell him with loving caresses that he is magnificent, worthy of love and very special. Suddenly silent, I know that he knows; so, I leave.
Slowly, we descend the stairs engulfed by an incandescent plume of pure joy and smoky sorrow—we can’t be a bigger family. The nurse instructs us to wait, and she will meet us in the office with Zack.
After placing Zack in my arms, the nurse tells Viktoria that we must remove all of his clothing because the clothes belong to the child house. No, he can’t keep the clothes on his back to wear to his new home.
Luckily, prior to this visit, we received information about the exit process; so, we remove the state-issued red holiday outfit, the change of clothes clearly frightening him. The “alien” disposable diaper scares him even more. In the child house, children wear many layers of clothing for warmth and absorption; the staff checks and changes the children periodically. Cleaning clothes is far more economical than stockpiling expensive disposable diapers. Finally, we complete our task and say goodbye quickly. As we hurriedly and carefully position ourselves in the awaiting taxi, we steal a moment for a one-second kiss.
We can go home! We completed the final step—the child house.
As we ride along in the cab, I watch Zack lovingly. He stares at me with a furrowed brow, his lower lip contorted as he sucks inwardly on it. Not only does he look terrified, but his chest rattles loudly every time he breathes.
We must do something right away to make him comfortable for the 13-hour plane flight home. We need a doctor’s help now to board that plane.
25. FIRST DAY WITH ZACK
“Feeding instructions–bottles of Kefir, the other supplementary substance, no lime juice, he doesn’t like it, and no orange juice.”
No lime juice! Why would you give a baby lime juice?
“Let’s just keep him on the same meal plan until later. What do you think?” I look to Ethan for some comment as I stack the Gerber’s on the kitchen counter.
“Sounds like a good plan especially with the long flight home,” Ethan chimes in.
“Let’s make a bottle for him now,” I suggest with a smile.
Ethan, who loves to cook, begins to pull ingredients from the fridge and put them on the kitchen counter while I grab the bowls and spoons. He snatches one of something and watches it slowly writhe into the bowl, landing with a loud slapping noise. Then, he covers it with water and mashes the gelatinous white brick, which smells like sour milk, into a drinkable substance.
“Yummy, may I pour a cup for you, my dear?” He asks with a grin.
“Only if you share it with me, darling,” I answer with a smile. “Shall I get two spoons? We can feed it to one another.” Zack doesn’t blink when offered the noxious bottle-hungrily finishing it in a matter of minutes
***
A big dinner, a busy day and loving arms which now rock him transform squirmy Zack to sleepy still Zack, his glazed eyes closing for longer and longer periods of time until he finally sighs and surrenders to sleep.
The first night spent with Zack—unforgettable. After dinner, we diaper and dress Zack in his footy pajamas. Ethan and I take turns holding him so that we can brush our teeth and change into our pajamas. Then, I crawl over the perimeter of stuff—baggage, shoes, everyday necessities, baby stuff, etc that we couldn’t put anywhere else in this crowded apartment-and lay down on the left side using a pillow laid flat to create a buffer. Ethan, cradling Zack, lunges over the guardrail of stuff and places Zack in the center of the bed next to the pillow. Then, he lies on the other side—placing another pillow beside him to complete the pillow fence
“What do you think? Will this be safe enough for him?” I ask.
“We’ll let him tell us,” Ethan answers with a grin.
I don’t think I’ll sleep much anyway. I just want to watch him sleep. What a huge blessing and honor to mother this wonderful baby.
My eyes fill with tears as I think about our struggle and all the things we would do for him.
I’ll do anything for him. I’ll be the best mother he could ever want.
Zack’s sudden wail startles me.
“He’s not …comfortable,” I determine.
I sit up instantly in bed, picking him up. And he stops. When I put him back in the buffer space, he cries again. After a few times, clearly, it’s time to change the strategy.
“Let’s just remove the pillow buffer so he can touch us while we’re in bed. I’m too awake to sleep much anyway,” I suggest to Ethan, whose bleary eyes beg for sleep.
“Okay, I’ll try to get some sleep and take sleep watch tomorrow,” he agrees with a smile.
Ethan endured a tough emotional day. Sleep watch, my pleasure.
I grab the pillows and position them toward the end of the bed underneath Zack. I glance over at Ethan on his back, feigning sleep an ear-to-ear grin giving him away.
Then, I lie on my back wide-awake, listening and waiting. The rustle of a blanket and the flutter of a touch on my lower arm, the miniature hand resting palm down on my arm.
Zack.
Did he ever get the security of sleeping in the same room with a protector? Or did he just listen to the cries of babies that fear the dark? Did the caregivers ever comfort the crying babies at night?
I beam and grab his little hand and kiss it, putting it back on my arm. That’s when I notice his other arm stretched toward Ethan, the tiny hand placed on his upper arm.
Zack sleeps and cries intermittently throughout the night. When I comfort him, he returns to sleep on his back. He awkwardly extends his arms to maintain constant contact with each of us all night long—rooted to his Dad and Mom. A bond to weather the decades made tangible in a single night.
Does he realize in some way that we are his? Or does he yearn for that security and comfort in the dark that he never experienced?
As we begin the second day in the apartment, our first full day alone as a family, his signals become easier to decipher, the diapering process becomes highly efficient. Aside from the episodes of play and lavish affection, showers of hugs and kisses, we have to take the necessary steps to provide the American Embassy with documentation required for U.S. clearance. Fortunately, we easily schedule an appointment at an American clinic for a medical exam that same day. The three-minute medical exam and review of the paperwork give us much time to make more memories with Zack. Mid-day, as our baby naps in bed surrounded by pillows, Ethan and I sit at the kitchen table.
“It was like he velcroed himself to us all night long. It was amazing,” Ethan reflects.
“It was so special to be there for him, to share that time with him. You missed out by playing possum. I’m on to you now. You can’t play possum when we get home,�
�� I joke.
“Home…He’s going to be the little prince at home,” Ethan muses.
Abruptly, a strange noise interrupts our dialogue, killing all conversation. Like Mustangs in the wild listening for danger, we freeze and listen for the sound only to hear it again. While completely unsure of the “what” of the noise, we locate the “where” of the noise. Tip toeing toward the mystery sound, we end up near the bedroom where Zack sleeps. We move toward the bedroom only to hear it again. At this point, we stand mouths agape as Zack entertains us with his best “raspberry” noises, trumpeting to us like an elephant calling the herd. Picking him up, I “raspberry” back.
Ethan puts his arms around my waist, adding his version of the best “raspberry”. It’s time for a family hug with Zack at center point. Zack grips my arms tightly as if he’s climbing a rope; then, he relaxes his hands and puts his head on my heart.
It feels so wonderful to laugh freely without a care.
After all, the worst is behind us now.
***
Our next step is to contact the US Embassy for an appointment later in the week. The translator needs two days to translate all Embassy-mandated paperwork for our appointment.
For the next two days, as instructed, we remain in the vault-safe apartment, left again to entertain ourselves. Zack continues to battle chest congestion—our US doctor suggesting by phone that we give him a recommended dose of children’s cold medicine. With a 13-hour flight home, it’s imperative that we make him comfortable, and everyone else on that flight. By chance, Natasha breezes through the kitchen during a quick visit. Immediately, she spots the bottle of American medicine, stopping in her tracks to scrutinize it. Carrying the bottle as if it was a dead rodent, she walks into the living room.
“You, Americans, overmedicate your children! I call a Russian doctor to the apartment for the boy. He put onions in his socks and wrap his chest with a mustard poultice to treat him,” Natasha rages as her face becomes fiery red.
Mustard poultice would burn his skin! Can’t let that doctor treat him. No way! How do you dance around that scenario without offending her?
Beautiful Evil Winter Page 11
